Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  Now, there’s something I could get on board with. Frank turned to me and inclined his head with respect.

  “Jaxson, I really look up to you, man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I can’t help but feel you have so much wisdom to pass down. I just want to learn from your experience. For instance, how did you take it when they introduced talkies? Did you ever imagine such a thing?”

  Oh, hardy har har. Age jokes. That was a painfully long wind-up for a woefully mediocre joke. But he kept going. “What about when things changed to colour? That must have been a shocker.”

  Wow, Frank, you slay me. That deserved the slow clap of doom.

  Then Emma chimed in. “Enough over-the-hill jokes. Jaxson looks great for his age.”

  “So true,” Frank agreed. “Jax, you don’t look a day over fifty.”

  Emma stage whispered, “He’s thirty-five.”

  “Oh?” Frank scratched his head. “In that case, I take it back. You don’t look a day over sixty.”

  Morris responded with his best rimshot impression. Ba dum ching. Harriet threw a marshmallow at Frank. And Randall cupped his hands around his mouth and heckled, “Don’t quit your day job.”

  That got more laughs than the real jokes.

  “Okay, okay.” Emma quieted everyone down. “In all seriousness, we love Jax. That’s why we’re all here to celebrate. I offered to take him to Outback Steakhouse for his birthday, but he firmly told me no respectful Aussie would ever dine at Outback. Jaxson, our reservation is tomorrow at seven. Happy Birthday.”

  She gave a small bow to thunderous applause and blew me a friendly kiss. Elton and his girlfriend shouted at me, demanding I give a speech. If they knew me at all, they’d know I was terrible at speeches. I probably held the record for the shortest acceptance speech in history.

  Doing my best to remain diplomatic, I smiled. “Thanks for your kind words. It’s just what I always wanted. I only hope to repay you the favour on your thirty-fifth birthdays.”

  Assuming I didn’t run back to Australia with my tail between my legs.

  After that, Emma and Frank continued the roast with a few jabs at Randall. Something to the effect of a quickie wedding and scrutinizing if Annie had a belly bump. She didn’t. Thin as a rail.

  Morris and Elton were the brunt of a few New Yorker jokes, however most of the quips were directed at Morris’ receding hairline and something about him driving a minivan full of children around Manhattan. They were mildly funny but only just so.

  When they got to Jennifer, however, it all went to pot in the form of a horrendous poem composed by Frank. Cringe level: seven thousand. He took out his phone and opened the Twitter app, pretending to scroll through the feed.

  “If you want the fair fax about Jen,

  Read over her Twitter again.” Here, he showed everyone his screen.

  “She’s got lots of likers,

  especially from bikers.

  And she’s such an odd contradiction.

  So sweet but without much conviction.

  ‘Motorcycles cause lots of friction’

  says commenter @ magic_dixon.”

  The mood shifted, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something of an inside joke too sinister to share with the rest of us—Frank and Emma were the only ones laughing. Jennifer’s features turned stone cold. After the most uncomfortable lull, Pinky spoke up, most likely trying to keep spirits high.

  “Oh, do me. Do me.”

  Emma shook her head and replied, “You’re too easy a target, dear.”

  But Pinky persisted, almost begging to be the subject of a roast. To her credit, I imagine she was doing her best to keep things lively. Unfortunately, it didn’t work in her favour because after some cajoling, Emma finally said, “Hmmm, okay then. When I first met Pinky, I wondered why her friends gave her that nickname. Was it because of the movie Grease? Did she have pink hair or put something red in a load of whites? Then after getting to know her, I discovered it wasn’t because of hair colour or anything to do with a colour at all.” She held up her pinkie finger and wiggled it. “It’s the size of her brain.”

  A wet blanket of silence fell over the group. Nothing but the sounds of crackling logs and crashing waves remained. Emma’s expression faltered as a comedian would when booed off the stage, and she plopped on her blanket without another word.

  Pinky was the first to speak up, chuckling uncomfortably as she murmured, “Oh, I get it. Pinky finger. That’s… clever.”

  It wasn’t clever. It was rude, and everybody knew it. Even Frank, who was usually as subtle as a wallaby in the queen’s knickers, looked away and busied himself with skewering a marshmallow.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk.” Jennifer stood and offered her hand to Pinky. “Want to come?”

  Pinky gratefully accepted and off they went. Elton and his girlfriend soon followed as did Morris, Annie, and Randall.

  “Where’s everyone going?” Emma cried. “It’s pitch black out there.”

  I got to my feet, circled around the fire to where Emma sat, and brushed sand from my trousers. “Grunions, Emma. Remember?”

  Her wide, expressive eyes met mine from beneath her lashes like a sad puppy who’d been dog shamed. Her lip quivered with a reply she didn’t have the words for. I waited to see what she had to say for herself, not sure what I was expecting. A tiny alien to crawl out of her ear, maybe?

  Surprise. Aliens took over my brain. What did I say?

  But she only hardened her features and looked into her lap. I turned from her in favour of grunion hunting, taking Harriet with me.

  27

  Badly Done

  Emma

  I liked to think I had developed thick skin working in show business. One must endure rejection and ridicule from peers and the media. It seems the more famous you are, the more the sharks come out with rows and rows of teeth.

  I could handle all that. Sharks were like little fishies in a bowl… unable to touch me. But Jaxson. When I fell out of Jaxson’s favour, I wanted to throw up. The look he gave me. So filled with disdain. I’d never seen him look at me like that. It made me feel incredibly sad. Then he took off with Harriet.

  I wanted to sink down into the sand and hide myself away forever. I cleaned up the stuff I’d brought and decided to sneak away before they returned. I didn’t want Jaxson to see me leave. I didn’t want to ruin his birthday. But he found me.

  “What happened to you, Emma?” he said. “I hardly recognize you anymore.”

  I’m right here, I wanted to say. I’m just me. But I didn’t open my mouth. The way he shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, I could tell he didn’t believe I was listening. But I heard every word that fell from his lips. They were bombs to my heart, each one, and they exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. How could I respond to that when I could hardly breathe? The last thing he said to me, the thing that stood out above every other word of admonishment was, “Badly done, Emma.”

  Badly done.

  And the thing that hurt the most about that wasn’t because I messed up. It was because I disappointed him. Somehow, that was what made my world implode. I could endure almost anything, but if Jax disliked me, I’d rather change my identity and flee to another country. I couldn’t handle it.

  Days passed. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. His presence was everywhere in my house. Everywhere I looked, there was evidence of Jax, whether it be the silver elephant paperweight he gave me one day to help me organize better, or the sunglasses he accidentally left behind. I may or may not have confiscated those for my own personal use. I couldn’t even binge eat junk food without the reminder of how Jaxson raided my pantry like he owned it.

  I lost sleep thinking about that night. How the whole party was cursed from the beginning. The weird vibe Elton’s new girlfriend gave the rest of the group. How she latched on to Jennifer with all sorts of crappy advice. And then how Jennifer reacted to Frank’s poem. I kind of felt sorry for
her after that. Which made me feel like a jerk for not getting to know her. It was a lot to process, and I was determined to be better. Maybe Jennifer needed more gal pals. Just like I did. Maybe she needed a good friend to turn to, a friend who’d help her walk away from the potentially harmful relationship with that Dixon guy. Maybe I could help her find a new guy!

  No.

  Single pringles never to mingle. I could imagine meeting Jennifer for sushi and mani-pedis. Just us gals, doing gal things. We could invite Harriet and Beth. Then we’d all do films together—feel-good chick flicks in the tradition of Steel Magnolias or Waiting to Exhale. We’d be hugging and laughing on the movie poster, and our smiling faces would be superimposed over an image of the four of us running along the beach. In my dream, we’d be nominated for the same Academy Award but instead of feeling the competition, we’d all be winners. We’d make history with a four-way tie. Yeah, my future life would be brilliant. It would probably help if I rang Jennifer first, though. It would also help if she answered her phone.

  My voicemail messages:

  1. Hey Jennifer, it’s Emma. Give me a ring when you have a moment.

  2. Hi, it’s me again. I think we should talk. Call me, kay?

  When that didn’t reach her, I sent a text:

  Emma: I’ve been thinking we should make a chick flick together. Something equal parts funny and sad. Like a modern Little Women. But not quite as sad.

  When she still didn’t respond, I left another voicemail:

  What do you think of Sisters from Different Misters for a title? For our movie, that is. Too sassy? Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.

  Still no response. I didn’t blame her—it was a daft title. Coming up with ideas was harder than it looked. I’d never underestimate a screenwriter again.

  After some hours of self-depreciation, I decided to ring my real sister Bella. We had this strange unspoken understanding. She hated to talk on the phone, and when I heard her offspring squealing in the background, I remembered why we never rang each other. Her idea of keeping in touch was a monthly group chat with the whole family. The whole family—cousins, weird uncles—everybody. Naturally, when I rang Bella, she freaked out upon answering.

  “What’s wrong?” That was it. No greeting, no pleasantries. Just like Mum.

  “Can a girl call her sister to see how she’s doing?” I said with a lilt in my voice.

  She sighed, really sighed hard as though answering the telephone was the most inconvenient thing in the world. “It’s almost midnight, Emma.”

  Oh, right. I forgot to check the time. “Sorry. Wait. Why aren’t your children in bed?”

  “Because they’re mini terrorists.”

  On that score, I thought it best to remain silent and so I said, “How are my favourite nephews and nieces?”

  “Didn’t you get my last Facebook blast?”

  “I deleted the messenger app,” I replied. No remorse there. My messenger app would light up with chats from people I didn’t know I was related to. I was fairly certain half of them weren’t.

  There was a muffled shouting, something akin to ‘stop licking your brother’ from what I surmised. That was followed by copious amounts of giggling and a thundering crash.

  Bella groaned. “I’m sorry. I gotta go. Was there something important?”

  Heck if I know.

  “I just wanted to tell you… I love you.”

  Bella was so quiet, I thought for a moment we got disconnected. The gleeful squeals of small children in the background were the only indicator she was still on the line.

  After a long pause she asked, “Are you dying?”

  “No.” Not physically, but come to think of it, maybe I was slowly dying inside. Metaphorically. Perhaps I was like a caterpillar and had to go through the pupa stage before I could turn into a happy little butterfly. Pupa. What an odd word. Pupa, pupa, pupa. But good for lip exercises.

  “Okaaay.” Poor Bella. She didn’t know what to do with me on a regular day. “I… love you too?”

  “Brilliant. Now put those terrorists to Bedfordshire. Oh, and Bella… don’t tell Mum I rang?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  We ended the call with one of those weird you hang up first situations. Ah, it was good to catch up.

  While I was on a messaging binge, I decided to send a text to Jaxson.

  Emma: Hey you.

  He didn’t respond right away and when he did, it was all business.

  Jaxson: Hey. Don’t forget we have the green light session next Wednesday.

  Yeah, I didn’t forget about that. Strangely, it was all I looked forward to. Even Harriet was too busy for me these days. I kept telling myself it was all for the best. I had a pile of scripts to sort through and a commercial to shoot for my aunt’s charity. She was going global with her fundraising these days. It was exciting.

  But instead of doing something productive, I plopped on my bed and let Instagram suck another two hours out of my life. I wished Jaxson was on Instagram so I could stalk him. He preferred Twitter and even then, he hardly ever posted.

  Frank used Instagram, though. He was all over the place in there—selfies galore on his grid. He tagged me in a couple of pictures from our fragrance shoot. We looked cute together. It was a recurring theme in the comments. At one point, I thought so, too. Speaking strictly of aesthetics, we did make a good match. My great hair. His Colgate smile. Close in age and temperament. No wonder the gossip sites shipped us hard. I almost believed it myself. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Frank was so not for me. Maybe there really was such a thing as too footloose and fancy-free. Too much of a jokester. And there I was falling under his influence at the bonfire. Poor Jennifer. And poor Pinky.

  My mobile alerted me to the low battery icon. Just one more call, though. I had to ring Pinky to apologise. In truth, I didn’t expect her to answer, not after the things I had said to her, but she greeted me cheerily. She was so very gracious about it, thanking me for the honour. I apologised, but it was lost in the ether. She was her usual chatty self—as though I hadn’t insulted her epic rap battle style.

  “All in good fun, eh?” That was the Canadian in her coming out. Nice to a fault.

  She knew about my calls and texts to Jennifer. They’d been hanging out at the time. Girl time. Not the mani-pedi, sushi munching, Oscar-winning kind I’d envisioned. Just pizza and rom-coms on Netflix. That sounded infinitely more fun. I offered to bring ice cream for the next time they had girl’s night. Maybe I sounded too desperate. She just grunted noncommittally.

  Pinky and I chatted so long, I had to set my mobile to the charger, which put a crick in my neck. I couldn’t tell you what we talked about, though. Nonsense I guess and that was okay. And although I didn’t fool myself into believing things were all patched up and tickety boo with Pinky, at least I didn’t feel the need to hide under a ski mask at the green light session.

  When I saw her at the Gardiner rehearsal studio on Wednesday, I hugged her—perhaps a little too tight and too long, but I didn’t care. I needed to hug the awkwardness right out of whatever it was between us from the beginning. I felt it was a fresh start between us. If only Jaxson wasn’t so cross with me.

  We rehearsed once before the studio execs came in. Just marked it, that’s it. My heart cracked a little bit with Jaxson’s coldness. Everything was so efficient and quick. The kiss was practically non-existent. Transient.

  But as soon as the execs sat down, and the first note rang out, sparks flew like wildfire. Everyone in the company owned it. Energy crackled, like performing opening night on Broadway. The air was pure electricity. We had a hit on our hands, and we all knew it. The execs knew it. I could see it on their faces. I could see it especially on Jaxson’s face. He glowed. Magnetic. I was afraid to touch him lest I got shot through with the sparks of lightning in his fingertips. I was right about that. That reunion kiss was everything and nothing all at the same time. It was perfection. And it was over too soon. />
  28

  We’ll Always Have Paris

  Jaxson

  My mum was a huge Sting fan back in the eighties. I once found a photo of her and Dad at a concert that time Sting breezed through Sydney on the Dream of the Blue Turtles tour. They were so young and happy. The rents, not the blue turtles. Not a care in the world—no doubt because that was before kids. Before my brother and I gave them grey hair.

  When I packed a bag and moved to England to chase down my dreams, Mum made me a mix tape. A mix tape. That woman, she’ll forever be stuck in the eighties. But I still played that tape from time to time, even in recent years. I had to buy an old boom box on eBay just to listen to that one cassette in my Beverly Hills home, and thankfully, the darn thing hadn’t eaten it up yet, so hooray for old stuff, I guess.

  The first song on the playlist was Sting’s If You Love Somebody Set Them Free. The stupid thing about me was, I didn’t listen to the tape until I’d been in England for a year, and things weren’t going well for me. I was the typical broke actor dealing with rejection after rejection. Then I found the tape—still in the small zipper compartment of my suitcase—and I wept like a beluga whale. Soon after that I enrolled in Film School, which was the best decision of my life. I might not have met Emma otherwise.

  After my bonfire birthday party, I drove home, poured myself two fingers of scotch, and clicked the tape into the player. I settled on the wingback chair in my study, fully prepared for the waterworks to appear. This whole jealousy thing was new to me. I’d never been so consumed by so many emotions all at once. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Because when you love someone, you set them free. Thanks for the pep talk, Sting.

  Emma’s attachment to Frank was glaringly obvious. The way they’d been flirting for weeks, the silly inside jokes, the small touches. It was time she moved out from under my shadow, time I set her free.

  That turned out to be harder in practice than in theory. Over the years, Emma wiggled her way into every part of my life. She was like a tiny mite under the surface of my skin. She burrowed into my heart and soul and just camped out, doing Emma things, slowly morphing me into her so much so I didn’t know where I ended, and she began. I thought about the restaurants I frequented. Did I like those places or was it Emma? Or the movies I chose to direct. Maybe my decisions were heavily influenced by whether there was a part for Emma. Our Friday night tradition at the local greasy spoon wasn’t enough. I wanted to see her every day at work, too. Perhaps I went too far in writing a part for myself in Field of Hearts. It was a dream come true, though, and when we hit it out of the park on Wednesday, it was pure magic. Emma’s eyes sparkled when we sang our duet, and in that moment, I didn’t care about Sting or blue turtles or Frank or anybody. I just wanted to kiss her and maybe make it last forever.